Casualties
by FadedPromise
Summary: The war left scars on many people, and it's still taking its toll. My attempt to create a story that reads like an episode of the show. I don't own DBM.
1. Chapter 1

The park had seen better days. Weeds surrounded the trees and benches, the grass was overgrown, discarded bottles and papers were strewn about. The children who used the park were almost equally ragged, but they had a ball to kick and friends to play with so they were content with their lot.

They had split into teams, and despite the poor quality of the pitch and the ball, they struggled ferociously for possession. Elbows were thrown, shins were kicked, and knees were scraped, but the warriors battled on. Their shouts rang out raucously until one boy kicked the ball particularly hard, sending it into the high weeds.

"Go on, you get it, Tompkins," the other boys insisted.

Ten-year-old Peter Tompkins, who had kicked it so hard, stomped over to the area where the ball had disappeared, waving the weeds aside as he searched.

"Hurry up," the others shouted, eager to return to their game.

Finally Peter emerged but without the ball, his face white as a sheet.

"Where is it?" demanded one of the other boys, but it was apparent something was wrong.

Peter's whole body was shaking as he pointed back toward the weeds.

"What?" asked the oldest one, approaching cautiously.

"I… I think he's dead…"

* * *

Matthew Lawson, Charlie Davis and Bill Hobart were already on site when Lucien Blake arrived at the scene. He noted the huddle of young boys off to the side, a few adults who seemed to be parents hovering over them. Charlie and Bill were questioning the children.

Lucien removed his hat and looked down at the corpse. "What do we have?" he asked Matthew.

"Middle-aged man, possibly a vagrant, looks like he's been here for a while. ID says his name is Brian Crenshaw. Boy found him here when he was chasing after a ball."

"Let's have a look, shall we?" said Lucien.

The body was face down with ants crawling over the exposed skin.

Gently, Lucien brushed away the insects and closed the man's vacant eyes. He ran his hands over the body, paying particular attention to the neck and skull, but found nothing amiss.

"Anything?" Matthew wanted to know.

"Not yet."

"Natural causes, you think?" asked Matthew. "I could use a quiet week."

"Too soon to tell," said Lucien. Carefully he rolled the body over, and the cause of death became clear. "Bloody hell. So much for your quiet week, I'm afraid."

They both stared at the gaping wound in the lower abdomen, an ornate ceremonial dagger still protruding from it.

* * *

Alice Harvey and the body of Brian Crenshaw were already waiting in the morgue when Lucien arrived. He greeted his fellow doctor while donning a lab coat.

As usual, Alice got straight to business. "Do we need to wait for the family to identify him?"

"They're still trying to locate a family member," Lucien explained. "Mr. Crenshaw appears to have been a vagrant. No next of kin yet. We don't even know if he's from Ballarat. We can start the visual examination and draw blood while we're waiting to hear about family."

"The cause of death seems to be apparent," said Alice. "The descending aorta has been severed, causing catastrophic blood loss."

"Seppuku," Lucien said softly. "Also known as hara-kiri."

"Ritual suicide?"

"Or at least made to look that way." He gestured toward the man's midsection. "You'll notice the single blade stroke across the abdomen, left to right. And the dagger appears to be a _tant_ o, the type of ceremonial blade used by samurai."

"Where would a vagrant get such a thing?" Alice wondered.

"That's a very good question. Those daggers are quite valuable to collectors. I suppose he could have brought it back as a war souvenir."

Alice sniffed. "The man is malnourished. Look at his hair and fingernails. Why would he keep a souvenir that could have fed him for weeks?"

Lucien did not respond. He knew the effects the war had inflicted on many men, himself included. Logic did not always come into play for the survivors.

Between them they removed Mr. Crenshaw's shirt completely and examined his chest. "No bruising or suspicious marks on the rest of the torso," Alice noted. "Let's look at his back."

Gently they rolled him toward Lucien. Alice saw it first and gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "My word!"

The whole of the dead man's back was crisscrossed with deep, aging scars.

When Lucien saw it, all colour drained from his face. He grasped the edge of the table to keep himself upright.

Reaching a hand to him, Alice cried, "Lucien, are you all right?"

His heart was racing, and he found himself gulping for air. He was barely aware when Alice moved a chair behind him and eased him down onto it. Taking an uncharacteristic liberty, she reached into his pocket, pulled out his flask, and thrust it toward him.

His hands were shaking so badly he had to use both of them to guide the flask to his mouth. The burn of the whiskey helped him anchor himself in the here and now. When the room had come back into focus, he looked up at Alice's worried face.

"Thank you. I do apologize. It's been a while."

She stared at him. "You've seen something like this before?"

"All too often. In Changi prisoner of war camp it was practically the uniform of the day."

"You…" Alice began, but then closed her mouth, thinking better of what she'd been about to ask. "I see."

"Yes." Lucien cleared his throat, trying to force away the huskiness in his voice. "Well, then, I'd better tell the Chief Superintendent to contact the Army in hopes of finding the family. They should have a record of our Mr. Crenshaw."

As if to turn off the memories, Lucien rolled the body back over and took a closer look at the incision that had clearly killed the man. After studying it carefully, he used a cloth to pick up the dagger and examined the blade as well. Then he looked at the man's hands.

"He was right handed. You can see the writing callus on the middle finger."

"Yes, and so?"

Lucien pointed to the wound. "Look at the angle of entry. It would have been almost impossible for him to manage that with his right hand. You see?"

He used the dagger to try to approximate the necessary movement on himself, then gestured again toward the wound on Mr. Crenshaw.

Alice peered at it closely. "I concur. It seems someone else killed Mr. Crenshaw and took quite some pains to make it look like suicide." She paused. "Why would someone go to such lengths for a vagrant?"

"Perhaps whoever did this saw Mr. Crenshaw as something more than just a vagrant?" Lucien suggested.

"What then?"

"I don't know. A threat of some kind?"

* * *

When Lucien walked into the Ballarat Police Station his pallor caused a couple of people to stare at him, including Matthew Lawson. He was about to accuse his police surgeon of being drunk, but then realized that strong drink was not the cause.

"Doctor?" he said, inviting Blake to explain.

Instead Lucien handed him a folder. "The preliminary autopsy. Mr. Crenshaw died last night, probably between 10 and 1 A.M. Cause of death: catastrophic blood loss."

"Suicide then?" asked Matthew.

"My guess is murder." Lucien tapped the report. "Angle of entry is wrong for it to be self-inflicted. Someone did this to him. Have you located the next of kin?"

"Apparently he walked out on his family several months ago. Mental issues. Army says he was a POW at Changi Prison for three years."

Lucian sat down abruptly, his eyes closing and a nervous hand going to the back of his head.

"Is that where you…?"

He nodded sharply.

"You didn't know him there?"

"I probably met him," Lucien admitted. "It's been a while and there were a lot of prisoners."

"Anyway, the wife should be by later this afternoon to identify the body. Doctor Harvey can see to her."

"No!" Lucien said sharply. He took a deep breath and modulated his voice. "Sorry, Matthew. I want to be there."

"I'm not sure you should be anywhere near this case," Matthew said. "There's no way you can be impartial if you identify with the victim."

"I do identify with the victim," Lucien admitted. "And that's why I have to find the killer, Matthew. I don't remember the man. The least I can do is find out what happened to him."

The chief superintendent narrowed his eyes. "All right, but you're on a short leash. If I see you spinning out of control on this one, I'll send you home. Understood?"

"Understood. Thank you, Matthew." He stood and tugged his waistcoat into place. "I don't suppose there were any fingerprints on the dagger?"

"None. Not even the victim's."

"So either the killer was interrupted before he could finish framing it as a suicide or …"

Matthew finished the sentence. "Or he didn't think anyone would bother investigating, the victim being a vagrant and all."

"It might be worth checking if anyone else was near the park around the time of death," said Lucien. "In case he _was_ interrupted."

"I'll send a couple men out there tonight at the same time, see who uses the park that late at night."

"Dog walkers. People coming home from a late night shift. Young couples," Lucien suggested.

"We'll check it out tonight. Now, Mrs. Crenshaw is due at the morgue on the hour. If you want to be there you should probably head over."

"Right you are."

* * *

Alice waited with Lucien for the victim's wife to arrive.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Alice asked. "I can always…"

Lucien shook her off just as the door opened. "Mrs. Crenshaw, I'm Doctor Blake and this is Doctor Harvey. I'm so sorry to put you through this. Just let us know when you're ready to proceed."

Jane Crenshaw was in her late forties, her clothing careworn but neat, her grey hair topped with a once-stylish hat. Clearly, she was a woman who had been through difficult times, and now faced one of the most difficult of all. "Thank you, Doctor," she said in a weary voice. "Let's just get it over, please."

Gently Alice lifted the sheet to uncover the face. Mrs. Crenshaw took one look and had to turn away. "Yes, that's Brian. At least now I know what's become of him. He's finally at peace."

Lucien put a comforting arm around the woman's shoulder. "I know how hard this is for you, Mrs. Crenshaw. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"

"All right."

"When did you last see Brian?"

"It was about three months ago, I think. He'd been disappearing for a few days at a time before that, but he always came back. This time was different. He didn't seem in his right mind. I tried to convince him to see someone but he always refused to talk about that time. The war, you know?"

"Yes, I know," Lucien said softly. "Brian was in a prison camp, wasn't he?"

"He was. I don't even know where, though. He wouldn't tell me."

"It was Changi Prison in Singapore," Lucien told her. "You're probably better off not knowing any more about it."

"How do you know where he was?"

"I was there. I was a prisoner as well. I'm sorry to say that I don't really recall Brian, but there were a lot of prisoners being moved in and out all the time."

"But you… You aren't like Brian."

"Not now, no," he told her. "It took a very long time, and I still have moments when… Well, when it becomes overwhelming. You never really get over something like that, Mrs. Crawford."

She nodded, and walked over to her husband. "At least he's not suffering now."

"No, he isn't. But you are. If there's anything I can do to help you, please let me know."

"Would you mind attending the service? Funeral service, I mean. I think Brian would have liked to know that there was someone who knew what he went through."

"I would be honored," Lucien assured her. "You can leave word at the police station with the details, and I promise you I will be there."

"Thank you, Doctor Blake. You've been very kind."

"You take care now, Mrs. Crenshaw."

As Alice replaced the sheet over the body she frowned at Lucien. "Do you think that's a good idea, going to the funeral?"

He smoothed down the hair at the back of his head. "Probably not, but how could I refuse her request?" He considered for a moment. "I also want to see if anyone shows up that might have had a reason for wanting Mr. Crenshaw out of the picture."

* * *

He returned to the park, needing another look at the site where the body had been found. He hoped he might be able to visualize what had taken place, but nothing came to him. The amount of blood on the ground indicated this was clearly where the murder had taken place, but that was about all he could tell. The area had been well-trampled since then so there was no hope of identifying the footprints of the killer or the victim.

Giving it up, he drove home. It was already dark when he arrived, but he took a moment to compose himself. If both Matthew and Alice had commented on his appearance, there was no hope that Jean wouldn't notice the effects of the day's events on him.

He needn't have bothered. Charlie had already been home and warned Jean and Mattie that Lucien was likely to be upset. He barely had time to hang his hat on a hook inside the door before they were asking after him.

"I'm fine," he assured them, holding up his hands in surrender.

Jean was not convinced. "You don't look fine," she noted. "I think a whiskey is definitely in order."

"Yes, Doctor Beazley," he chuckled. "Seriously, it was… upsetting, to say the least. But now I can look at it as a case to solve. Distance myself."

Jean's look told him she was less than convinced about that, but she knew better than to press him. When he reached the point of needing her help, he would tell her more about it.

He tried to force himself into a more jovial mood during dinner, asking the two ladies about their day, teasing Mattie about her visit to a particularly cantankerous patient. By the time he finished his second whiskey in the sitting room afterwards, he was feeling some of the day's tension ease away and suddenly he felt very weary. He hoped he might be able to get some sleep.

As if sensing this, Jean announced she would head up to bed. She gave Mattie a stern look, and the young nurse excused herself, too.

"Good night, Lucien. Sleep well," Jean told him, touching his shoulder lightly as she moved past him.

"Thank you, Jean. Good night."


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2**

Jean had become accustomed to him shouting out in the night, seized by the grip of nightmares. It would always upset her that his dreams were so troubled, but it had happened so often that she had fallen into a routine of knocking on his bedroom door loud enough that he would usually wake and apologize for disturbing them all.

But this was nothing like what she had come to expect. These were screams of anguish. The agonized cries had her reaching for her dressing gown and racing downstairs. Charlie and Mattie were peering out their doors, but she waved them back.

She reached Lucien's bedroom and pounded on the door. No response except the escalating cries. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door and switched on the light, hoping that might wake him, but Lucien continued to thrash wildly, face contorted in pain.

There was nothing for it but to rouse him herself. She approached the bed with trepidation, trying to dodge flailing limbs. She reached him and held his shoulder to shake him, but in the grip of his nightmare he must have thought it an attack. A powerful backhand caught her alongside the jaw, sending her stumbling backwards with a cry.

That sound finally reached him. Lucien's eyes flew open and he looked around wildly. In another moment he was beside her, a fresh agony on his face.

"Jean, did I… Bloody hell!" He turned away, ashamed, even as he helped her up and into a chair. His words came in a rush. "I'm so sorry. I never would have. I can't tell you. I'm…"

She reached up to turn his face back to her, seeing the anguish in his eyes. "Lucien, I know. You did nothing wrong. I should have ducked better."

He forced a chuckle, but the pain in his eyes did not diminish. "Let me get some ice. We can try to reduce any swelling or bruising." He helped her to stand, then kept a supporting hand under her elbow as they walked into the kitchen.

"Really, Lucien, It's just a bruise," she insisted, although she couldn't deny it was quite nice being the focus of his considerable attentions.

He chipped off some ice and wrapped it in a tea towel, then helped her press it against the mark that was rapidly forming along her jaw. His voice was grim as he said, "If there was gossip about us before, imagine what they'll be saying now."

Jean had to laugh at that, and a moment later he joined her. She was relieved to see that he was slowly regaining his composure.

They heard footsteps on the stairs, and Mattie and Charlie appeared in the doorway.

"Is everything all right?" asked Mattie, until she spotted the bruise. "Oh, my goodness, Jean, what happened?" She glanced at Lucien, who again turned away in shame.

"I'm afraid it's my fault," he managed.

Jean's voice cut him off. "It's no one's fault," she insisted firmly. "He was asleep at the time. I should have been more careful. Now, all of you, back to bed. Do you know what time it is?"

"A moment, please," said Lucien. "While you are all here. I'm sorry that I woke you, but please do not come into my bedroom again. I won't have a repeat of this." He waved a hand toward Jean.

She was indignant at the very idea. "Do you think we're going to let you suffer in agony and not do anything? No, Lucien, that won't happen."

Both Charlie and Mattie nodded their agreement with Jean.

"Pound on the door, if you must."

"I tried that first," Jean pointed out. "It didn't work."

Lucien ran his hands through his hair, clearly frustrated.

"How about this?" said Charlie. "If knocking on your door doesn't help, I'll go in."

Lucien looked at the younger man. "It's a good thought, Charlie, thank you, but what makes you think I can't hurt you as well?"

Charlie remembered how easily Lucien had dealt with the large bully who had attacked the two ladies when Jean's son was visiting, but he squared his shoulders and looked him in the eye. "I'm willing to take my chances, Doc."

"That's very gallant of you, but I'm not willing," said Lucien. "I would ask you all please to respect my wishes. I'm sure the problem will take care of itself once this case is over, but until then I will not put any of you at risk."

Jean considered the options. Knowing Lucien's stubbornness and his determination not to hurt them, he would probably do something noble like take to sleeping outside or drinking himself into oblivion each night. Or refusing to sleep at all. "Very well," she said at last, nodding to the others to concede as well. "Just know that it's being done under protest."

"Duly noted," said Lucien. "Thank you. And again, I _am_ sorry to be such a nuisance."

"Don't be silly," said Mattie. "We're just concerned about you. Is there anything we can do to help?"

"I don't think so, but thank you. Now, shall we all try to make something of the rest of this night?"

"Good night," muttered Charlie and Mattie, as they made their way back upstairs.

Lucien removed the cold compress to take a look at Jean's jaw. "Not as bad as I'd feared. Do you want something for the pain?"

"You really don't need to fuss," she assured him. "Nothing a little makeup won't take care of. If I don't sleep on that side, I'm sure I will be fine."

He nodded, his look still apologetic. "How about some Bex, at least?"

Jean knew he needed to do something to make her feel better, so she nodded. "Yes, I think that might help. Thank you."

He gave her the remedy and a glass of water, and after she'd taken it, he rested a hand at her lower back as he guided her to the foot of the stairs.

"You'll be all right now?"

"Yes, I'll be fine, Lucien. Really. I have a very competent doctor taking care of me." She smiled at him. "Try to get some sleep, please?"

He nodded. "You, too."

Jean went back to her room and crawled under the bedclothes. It took her a while but she managed to fall asleep despite her concern that Lucien would refuse to let himself sleep again this night.

* * *

The next day, Lucien saw patients, updated files and took inventory of his medication stores, all in an attempt to immerse himself in routine. It worked, to a degree, and he was feeling more emotionally stable when he walked into the police station in the late afternoon.

He greeted Matthew and the others, noting how they all seemed to be studying him. He decided to ignore it.

"Any luck in the park last night?" he asked.

"Afraid not. Several people had been there at the same time the night before, but no one saw or heard anything out of the ordinary."

"Do we know if Mr. Crenshaw was a regular there?"

"Doesn't seem like it. No one recognized him from the photo we showed around."

"I see," said Lucien. "So it's possible he was lured there for the express purpose of killing him."

"Or he just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Lucien shook his head. "I find it hard to believe that someone would go to all the trouble to make it look like a Japanese ritual death if he didn't know Mr. Crenshaw had been a prior 'guest' of the Japanese army. No, Matthew, he was the killer's target. Nothing else makes sense."

"Why?" asked Matthew. "I mean why kill him after so many years?"

"I have absolutely no idea. Maybe it was something that happened at the camp, and the killer just located Crenshaw at last to take his revenge."

Matthew thought about that. "Maybe we need to find out who else from around here might have also been a prisoner in that camp, since there seems to be a connection to the place."

"Not a bad idea," said Lucien. "I'm convinced, _convinced_ , that it has something to do with the war, given the method the killer used. Do you need my help?"

"No. Go home. I'll contact the army for their records. If I need anything further, I'll call you."

"I could…"

"You could go home," Matthew insisted. He could see the toll this case was taking on his friend.

Lucien held up his hands. "I'm going."

* * *

Lucien stopped off at the Colonists' Club first. He figured that if anyone might know about local men who had been POWs, it would be Cec Drury.

"Good afternoon, sir," the barman greeted him, frowning slightly, but making no comment on his appearance. "Your usual?"

"Thank you, Cec." He settled into his favorite armchair and waited for his drink.

Cec brought it promptly. "Will there be anything else, sir?"

"Yes, if you have a few minutes. Some information."

"Of course, sir. How can I help?"

"I wonder if you happen to know of anyone in the area who may have been a prisoner of the Japanese during the war." He raised an eyebrow.

"Aside from sir and the poor gentleman who died in the park?"

"Yes."

Cec thought it over. "I believe there were a couple of others, sir. Mr. Harris is a farmer, out near Bendigo."

"Not Nigel Harris?"

"Yes, sir. You know him?"

"I _knew_ him," said Lucien. "I had absolutely no idea he was living here. And the other one?"

"Donald Hammond. He's been working a mine just north of town."

"Bloody hell!"

"You knew him as well?"

Lucien remembered the man had been all too eager to expose wrongdoing by his fellow prisoners to the guards in return for food. He had been required to stitch up Hammond's wounds on a couple of occasions when his compatriots had exacted revenge.

Quickly he downed the rest of his drink and stood up. "Thank you, Cec. A pleasure, as always."

"Yes sir. Please be careful."

"I'm always careful," said Lucien, not even believing his own glib assurances.

* * *

Deciding it was too late in the day, that by the time he managed to locate the correct mine Hammond would surely have gone home, Lucien decided to wait until morning. He went home instead, to face worried looks from Jean and Mattie. He was getting weary of everyone being so concerned about him.

"I'm fine," he assured them before they could ask.

Jean was less than convinced, but she brought him a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits.

When they were all seated around the table, she said, "Do you want to talk about the case? Charlie told us a little bit. Are there any suspects?"

He sighed. Might as well as well fill them in, since he knew Jean wasn't likely to let it drop.

"A man was found dead in the park behind the electric plant. Brian Crenshaw. He left his family a few months ago and apparently had become a vagrant. He was stabbed in such a method that it was made to look like it was self-inflicted. Hara-kiri."

"My word!" said Jean. "But you don't think it was self-inflicted?"

"The angle was all wrong. No, someone else killed him."

"Any idea who? Or why?"

"No idea who, but from the method used, I'm absolutely certain it has something to with Mr. Crenshaw's war service. He was a prisoner of the Japanese."

"Surely not the same camp?"

"Yes, Changi Prison," Lucien admitted.

"Did you know him there?" asked Jean.

Lucien shook his head. "I don't recall him, but there were a lot of men moved in and out of that place. We… They were often sent on to labor camps in the area."

"And you think that something happened in the camp that caused Mr. Crenshaw to be a target. Why now?" asked Mattie.

"I don't know. Opportunity, perhaps? Sheer coincidence that someone recognized him after all this time? Hard to say just yet."

"I assume you're checking to see if there's anyone else in Ballarat who may have been there," said Jean.

"Yes. Matthew has requested records from the army. I don't suppose you know of anyone?"

"Sorry. The only other men that I knew were prisoners either died in the war or have passed away since then."

"You're sure?"

"What does that mean?" asked Jean.

"Probably nothing," he admitted. "It's just…"

"Just what?"

He shook his head, but Jean wouldn't let it go. "What are you thinking?"

"Oh, it's just that the war, that camp, well, it did strange things to so many men. I was just wondering if someone might have faked their own death to avoid all the…" He gestured wildly.

"All the questions? All the pitying glances?"

"Yes. And the way people sometimes look at you like… like you might be crazy. Or dangerous."

"Oh, Lucien," she said softly, resting a hand upon his as it rested beside his saucer.

"It doesn't happen much any more," Lucien assured her. "I've given the people of Ballarat plenty of other reasons to think I might be crazy."

She smiled. "Yes, you have. And those men I mentioned were all buried after an open coffin wake, so I'm quite sure they are really dead. Now, is there anything else or should I see to dinner now?"

"That would be lovely," said Lucien. "Thank you, Jean, Mattie."

He retrieved the afternoon newspaper and retired to his study.

* * *

That night Jean, Charlie and Mattie all waited for signs that the nightmares had returned, but there were no sounds from Lucien's bedroom. All three wondered if it indicated no horrible dreams or no sleep, but since he had become accustomed to nights with little or no rest the only indication in the morning of anything amiss was a slightly pale cast to his face.

Over breakfast they talked of everything except the case, trying to make it into a routine day. After thanking Jean for the meal, he announced that since he had no patients scheduled until the afternoon, he would see her later.

His first stop was the police station, to see if there was any word from the army on others who may have been at the camp.

"We have a list of three names," Matthew advised him. "Donald Hammond, Nigel Harris, Arthur Stuart. Do you recall any of them?"

"Yes, all three actually."

"We're bringing them in for questioning," said Matthew.

"I'd like to sit in."

"Are you sure?" Matthew was concerned. It was obvious that Lucien didn't need any more reminders of what had happened to him in that hellhole.

"Yes. I think it might be better for them."

"Someone who knows what they went through."

Lucien nodded.

"All right, if you're sure it won't be… too uncomfortable for you. Feel free to stop me if you think I'm going too far. None of them are suspects as yet. No reason to put them through hell."

"Agreed."

The first two, Harris and Stuart, arrived shortly. However, Charlie announced that Mr. Hammond was nowhere to be found. His mine looked to be abandoned and the cabin where he lived appeared as though no one had been there for several days.

"Makes a good case for his own guilt," Matthew observed.

"Possibly," said Lucien. "Or else…"

"What?"

"Oh, nothing. You'll start a search?"

"We will. Hobart, Davis, take whoever you need to help out. I want Mr. Hammond brought in."

"Yes, boss."

'Right. Now let's start with Stuart."

Arthur Stuart was a burly chap, balding now and with a noticeable paunch. Lucien had known the man only slightly, and Stuart could provide little information. He had had no contact with anyone else from the camp since shortly after repatriation. He didn't remember much about Brian Crenshaw, but he remembered Lucien clearly, since the few medical personnel in the camp were known to everyone. He recalled that Lucien had somehow managed to procure a tin of fruit for him when he was suffering from symptoms of scurvy.

"I still don't know how you did it, Captain Blake," Stuart told him, "but you probably saved my life. They sent me to a labor camp right after that, and I nearly didn't make it through to liberation."

"Just doing my duty." Lucien waved off the man's gratitude. "It's good to know that I could make a difference to someone. There were so many I couldn't help."

Stuart looked over at Matthew. "You can't begin to imagine the number of people this man saved. Without Captain Blake and a couple of others, I don't know if any of us would have survived that place. And not without cost to himself. He…"

Lucien reached out to touch the other man's hand. "We all did what we could. And it's just Doctor Blake now."

"I understand, Doctor." And he did. Each man had learned to deal with the memories in his own way. Stuart could respect that.

"Anything else you can think of that might help?" asked Matthew. "No? Well then, Mr. Stuart, thank you for coming in. If you see or hear anything related to that time, you'll let us know?"

"Yes, of course, Chief Superintendent. It was good to see you again, Doctor Blake. Good to know you survived."

"You too, Stuart."

The two shook hands, and Stuart was escorted out.

Matthew looked at his friend in a new light. Not at all surprised that Lucien would have risked himself for his fellow prisoners, nonetheless the look of gratitude in Stuart's eyes told him just how much Lucien had meant to the other people in that camp. He could hardly imagine the anguish for a doctor like Blake to lose so many patients there.

"You all right?" he asked.

Blake nodded, but the haunted look had returned to his eyes.

Nigel Harris was a different matter than Arthur Stuart. He was a small man in stature but his chest and upper arms bulged with muscles. He remembered Lucien very well and was surprised that he had not only survived the war but had returned to Ballarat. Harris had been a bit of an enforcer in the camp, trying his best to see that discipline was maintained and that rations went to those who needed them the most. He had spent countless times in punishment for stealing food for others and finding parts for the contraband radio that was their only source of news about the war. Lucien and several others had recommended him for the Victoria Cross.

He shook Lucien's hand enthusiastically. "Sir, so very good to see you again after all these years."

"It's just Doctor now. How are you, Harris?"

"Can't complain, Doc. Got a little farm not too far from here. Wife and three kids to help me out."

"Well, that's wonderful to hear."

"You're looking good, Doc. Family around here?"

"Not any more. Just good friends."

Harris nodded his understanding. "I take it this," he waved toward Matthew and the station around them, "has something to do with Crenshaw. Read in the paper that he died."

"That's right," said Matthew, taking charge. "Had you seen him recently?"

"I ran across him in a pub a few weeks back. Almost didn't recognize him."

Lucien leaned forward. "Forgive me, Harris. I don't recall much about his time in the camp. What can you tell me about him?"

"Not much. He was only there for a short time before they sent him on to one of the railroad camps. He used to try to get supplies for the civilians' camp. I think he knew a woman there. Got punished for stealing a few times before they shipped him out."

"Yes, I saw the results of that punishment," said Lucien. "He had no trouble with any of the other prisoners that you can recall?"

"Just the usual with the turncoats like Sterling and Hammond."

"Would that be Donald Hammond?" asked Matthew.

"That's the bastard. Last I heard he was working a mine near here, but I haven't seen him. Just as well. I won't forget him conspiring with the Sapper against his own mates. If I ever see him again, I'll give him what's coming to him, even after all this time."

"And did Mr. Crenshaw have something coming to him as well?" Matthew wondered.

"Yeah, but I took care of it."

"And just how did you do that?" asked Matthew.

"I stood him to six or seven rounds at the Drunken Duck."

"Right," said Lucien. "Harris, have you seen anyone else around here that you know from that time?"

"Just Artie Stuart, but you already questioned him, didn't you? I passed him on my way in."

"Yes. I'm afraid he wasn't much help."

"Too bad. Find the guy that killed Crenshaw, will you? So he can rest in peace."

"We'll do our best. Thank you, Harris. It was good to see you."

"You too, Doc. If you're ever out Bendigo way, look me up. I'd like to introduce you to my boys. Show them what a real hero looks like, instead of those blokes they see on the television."

Lucien smiled. "They know what a real hero looks like," he assured Harris. "They need only look at their father."

When he had been shown out, Matthew turned again to look at Lucien.

Uncomfortable with the other man's appraisal. Lucien returned attention back to the case at hand. "Not much help there."

"Not really," Matthew agreed. "Looks like Hammond might be our best bet for answers. By the way, who's this Sapper bloke Harris mentioned?"

"One of the camp guards. Not a fellow you'd ever want to meet up with, believe me."

I'll take your word for it. Let's just hope we can find Hammond, and soon. In the meantime, not much you can do here. Don't you have patients or something?"

Lucien grinned. "Or something. I'll see you later, Matthew."

* * *

By the end of the day there was still no sign of Donald Hammond, but Matthew assured Lucien that they would find him.

Dinner at home was a somber affair, with the two men ruminating about the details of the case, and the women thinking trivial small talk would be out of place.

After the washing up, they retired to the sitting room, where the heavy mood still lingered. Jean decided that this was probably ensuring Lucien's nightmares would make an appearance, so she decided to make him focus on something else. She switched on the radio, spinning the dial until she located his favorite classical music station.

"All right?" she asked him.

"Lovely. Thank you."

"You know, I've always regretted that I never learned much about this kind of music," she said. "Popular music is fine, but there's something so… so uplifting about this type of music. I'm afraid I wouldn't know Mozart from Beethoven though."

That caught Lucien's attention. "I'm told they have music appreciation courses at the community center from time to time. Or I could…" He waved a hand.

"Would you?" said Jean, smiling at him.

"It would be my pleasure. And perhaps a trip to the symphony wouldn't be amiss at some point."

"Oh, yes." She smiled again. "Who are your favorites?"

"Well, of course, Bach. You would probably appreciate him. Much of his work was written as church music."

"Really? And he's still a favorite of yours?" she teased.

"The work is so sublime that I can overlook its origins," he teased back. "And then there's Beethoven. A rebel."

"Of course."

"Yes, well, he was like a rock-and-roll star, the Bobby Lee of his day."

Jean was relieved to see the life come back into his eyes as he began to expound on a subject he clearly loved. And she found his enthusiasm infectious, especially when he moved to the piano to illustrate some of what he explained to her.

Mattie and Charlie excused themselves for the night, and after a while Lucien moved to sit next to Jean on the couch while they listened to Beethoven's Seventh Symphony on the radio. Gradually they had moved closer together until Lucien had his arm around her shoulders, and Jean had leaned against him. Despite the joyous tone of the symphony, both found themselves drifting off to sleep.

It was nearly 4 A.M. when Lucien awoke, his arm stiff but overall feeling more rested than he had in days. And since Jean was still asleep with her head against his chest, he assumed he had suffered no nightmares.

He looked down at her, thinking how much he would like to kiss her temple, but his very thought must have been enough to disturb her rest. She stirred, and opened her eyes. After a moment of obvious confusion, she sat up, away from him, and he immediately missed her warmth.

"Sorry," she murmured, straightening her hair. "I must have…"

"Yes, I'm afraid we both did," he reassured her. "No harm done."

She stood up. "You actually slept?"

"Very well," he assured her.

"And no nightmares."

"No, none that I recall. Certainly nothing violent."

"Well, I'm glad then. But I'd just as soon Mattie and Charlie not see us like this. Will you be all right?"

He smiled. "I'll be fine. Thank you, Jean. Good night."

"Good night," she said. "And thank you for the music lesson. You're a very good teacher."

"My pleasure."

He stood and watched her until she was out of sight. "My pleasure, indeed," he said softly when she had gone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Part 3**

Matthew noted that Lucien looked much more like himself when he arrived at the police station in the morning. Too bad that wouldn't last when he delivered the latest news.

"Good morning. I'm just on my way out the door," he said. "Donald Hammond has been found. Or at least his body has. Do you want to come or should I call Doctor Harvey?"

"No need to bother Doctor Harvey. Do we know what happened yet?" asked Lucien, falling into step with him as they headed back outside.

Matthew took a deep breath. "Bill Hobart tells me the body looks much like Mr. Crenshaw's. Stab wound to the upper abdomen."

"Bloody hell!"

"That was my reaction," Matthew admitted grimly. "All we need is a serial killer on the loose."

* * *

Hammond's body was lying in an overgrown area a hundred yards away from the entrance to his mine. There was already notable decomposition.

Lucien stood up after his initial examination of the remains. "I'd say he was killed before Mr. Crenshaw, up to a week ago. Probably surprised on his way home from the mine. No dagger was found?"

"Not yet. Why?"

"I'll need further testing, of course, but at first glance I'd say this was done with the same weapon that was used on Mr. Crenshaw."

"Let's hope it was the only one the killer had," said Matthew. "Maybe this is the end of it."

"Possibly, but I wouldn't want to bet anyone else's life on that."

Matthew nodded. "You're right. I'm going to assign officers to keep an eye on Harris and Stuart. What about you?"

"I suppose it wouldn't hurt to have someone watch the house when Charlie and I aren't home, but every indication is that our killer has very specific targets in mind."

"I meant for you, not for the house." He pointed toward Hammond. "I realize you can usually take care of yourself, but this man was no lightweight, and he was killed with little or no struggle."

"I'll be fine," Lucien assured him. "Besides, we want him to show himself, don't we? He's not very likely to do that if I have a uniform shadowing me."

"Blake," Matthew warned, "no setting yourself up as a target. Use your head. This is a dangerous man."

"And the sooner we catch him, the better. I'll be careful."

"Sure you will," said Matthew, but he scarcely sounded convinced.

* * *

At the morgue, a closer look at the fatal injury confirmed that it had likely been caused by the weapon that was found with Mr. Crenshaw's body.

When they turned Hammond over, Alice expected to see marks similar to those found on Crenshaw but there were only a couple of stripes. "No 'uniform' on this one then?"

Lucien shook his head. "Mr. Hammond learned how to get along with the guards."

"And how did he do that?"

"By collaborating with them," Lucien said. He tried not to be bitter. The man had only been trying to survive, after all.

"Interesting,"said Alice, but she was watching her colleague closely once again. "I don't suppose Mr. Crenshaw learned that same lesson?"

"No. As I said, I don't recall the man myself, but I'm told he was far less accommodating with the guards than Mr. Hammond was."

"So then why kill both of them? What did they have in common aside from both of them being in that place?"

"Well, that's the big question, isn't it?" But her remark gave him an idea. "I wonder if these are the only two."

"What do you mean?" asked Alice.

But Lucien was already heading for the telephone. He put in a call to a colonel he knew at Army headquarters in Adelaide.

* * *

Brian Crenshaw's funeral was in the afternoon. Lucien was not looking forward to it, but he had given his word to the widow. Jean insisted on accompanying him, even though he pointed out he would hardly be alone. Charlie and Bill Hobart would also be there, keeping an eye out for anyone suspicious, especially since the other potential targets, Stuart and Harris, would also be in attendance.

The service was restrained but impressive, with a military honor guard to accompany the body to the gravesite. Mrs. Crenshaw was stoic except for the two tears that ran down her cheeks as the coffin was lowered into the ground. Beside him, Jean's eyes were also damp, no doubt reminded of her own loss. That bloody war was still claiming victims. He rested a comforting hand on her forearm.

But as he turned to her, out of his peripheral vision he noticed a furtive movement as someone ducked behind a tree at some distance away. He caught Charlie's eye and nodded in that direction, and the young sergeant disengaged himself from the crowd and headed that way.

Lucien started to move after him, but Jean grasped his arm and held him in place. "You're here for Mrs. Crenshaw," she reminded him.

He knew she was right, but couldn't help following the man with his eyes for a few moments longer until he was sure Charlie and Hobart were heading toward him. Then he turned back to the funeral service.

The target must have seen the two men coming. He took off at a run, quickly pursued by both officers. They were gaining ground on him, but he headed into a copse of trees that concealed him, and by the time Charlie and Bill reached it, he was out of sight. They heard an automobile engine engage and knew they were too late.

* * *

"You lost him?" Matthew was incredulous. "Nothing at all?"

"No, boss. Sorry. He had a car nearby for his getaway." Charlie felt horrible, having let down both Lawson and the doc.

"Tire tracks? Footprints?"

"Neither," admitted Hobert. "The ground was too hard, and the car must have been parked right on the road.. No sign of tracks."

"Did you see his face at least?"

"We never got close enough, and he had his back to us when he was running," Charlie reported.

"He was a small bugger though," said Hobart. "No more than five foot six. Dark hair, straight, not very long."

"Age?"

The two sergeants looked at each other, then both shook their heads. "We couldn't really tell, not without seeing his face," said Hobart. "Maybe the doc saw something."

Lucien entered the squad room just as Hobart was finishing. "Too far away, I'm afraid."

"Then we have nothing except he was short and had dark hair. I don't suppose that rings any bells?" he asked Lucien.

"Not off the top of my head, no, nothing useful."

Ned Simmons came into the room bearing a couple sheets of paper. "Doctor, these came for you while you were out. From Adelaide."

"Ah, thank you, Ned." He took the sheets and quickly scanned them.

"What's that?" asked Matthew. "From Adelaide?"

"I called an old friend to do some digging," Lucien explained, continuing to read. "Bloody hell!" He thrust the papers toward Matthew.

"What?" asked Hobart.

"Ballarat isn't the first place this bastard has been," said Matthew. "First Sydney, then the Gold Coast. Several former POWs murdered, six in all. No one made any connection between the killings in either place until they after they stopped. Whoever is doing all this, losing his weapon isn't going to make him quit."

"Now he knows we're onto him, maybe he'll move on to somewhere safer," Charlie suggested.

"And start all over again?" asked Matthew. "I don't want this to be someone else's problem. I don't want it to be anyone's problem. I want to put an end to it right here."

Lucien added, "Besides, this looks like an obsession. He won't stop until he finishes what he started. Or until someone stops him."

Matthew took charge. "Make sure everyone keeping watch on Stuart and Harris has what little description we've got on the suspect. Blake, I'm assigning a man to you as well, no argument. We're aren't giving him any more chances to kill as easily as he got to the others. Understood?"

"Understood," Lucien mumbled, none too happy. He had been trained to counter just such a threat, and he didn't want anyone else put at risk on his behalf.

* * *

The nightmares returned full force sometime after midnight. In his dreams he arrived home to find Jean and Mattie lying on the floor of the sitting room, disemboweled and already gone. Before he could reach what was left of them he heard deep, guttural groaning. In the shadows by his study, he saw a small dark-haired man, his back to Lucien, stabbing Charlie over and over again. The man then began to turn toward Lucien, but a pounding on the door startled him. Before he could see the man's face, the dream was over and he was awake.

He had locked his bedroom door before going to bed, and now he could hear Charlie and the two women shouting to him. Grabbing his robe, he turned the lock and flung the door open. He needed to reassure himself that they were all right so that he could dispel the nightmare visions of them.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he mumbled, pulling each of them into a fierce hug.

Jean laid a hand along his jaw as he released her, then ever practical, she said, "I can use a cup of tea. Anyone else?"

The others followed her into the kitchen and took their customary places around the table as she prepared and poured out the hot drink. She was surprised that Lucien didn't suggest lacing it with whiskey. She wouldn't have begrudged him the comfort in any event.

"Now then Lucien," she began.

He stared at her, his eyes still clouded from the remnants of whatever horrors he'd been dreaming. "I almost saw him," he said. "The killer. He was just turning around when I woke up. He was familiar somehow."

"You think it's someone you know? Someone you've seen recently?" asked Charlie.

Lucien tried to call up the vision again, searching for who it could have been, but the dream had faded. "I don't know. But in my head at least, I recognized something about him."

"Maybe subconsciously you have an idea who the killer is," Mattie suggested. "That's who you were seeing in your dream."

"Maybe." He shook his head. "In any event, it's gone now."

"It wasn't either of the men you were questioning?" asked Jean. "Nigel Harris or Arthur Stuart?"

"No, neither of them. Wrong body type." He stopped dead, his mind working furiously.

"What?" The others all recognized that look.

"We've been looking at the wrong records. The prisoners weren't the only ones in that camp."

"Of course," said Jean. "The guards."

"Exactly. The guards," Lucien confirmed.

"Wait a minute," said Mattie. "Weren't they all hanged?"

"Not all of them. At least, that's my understanding. I testified at some of the trials, but I didn't really follow the outcome."

"Why not?" asked Charlie. "It seems like you'd want to be sure they were punished for what they did."

"Monsters," Jean muttered.

"By then I just wanted to put it all behind me. Get on with my life, find my family."

"You must have been pretty ill, too. Malnourished for so long," said Mattie.

Jean recalled Doctor Blake the elder saying his son spent more than two months in hospital after the camp was liberated. He had hoped Lucien would come home to finish recuperating.

"As I said, I just wanted to get on with my life," Lucien repeated.

"So it's possible there's one of the guards running free here, killing former prisoners," said Jean.

Lucien nodded. "Yes, it's possible. I need to check on them. Make some calls." He stood up, ready to go to his study, but Jean rested a restraining hand on his forearm.

"Lucien, it's one o'clock in the morning. The rest of the country is asleep, remember?"

"Yes, right." He ran a hand through his hair. Patience had never been his strong suit. "Please, back to bed, everyone. I'm sorry I disturbed you yet again."

"Mattie, Charlie, you go ahead," Jean urged. "I'm just going to do the washing up. You know I can't sleep with dirty dishes in my sink."

She washed the cups, and smiled when Lucien picked up a towel to start drying. "It's the least I can do," he shrugged.

When all was put away in the cupboard, Jean reached out to take Lucien's hand and led him to the couch in the sitting room. "Now then, this seemed to work the other night. Maybe it will again."

She sat down beside him and lifted his arm to drape it around her shoulders.

Smiling, he squeezed her tightly for a moment before they both relaxed into each other.

It took much longer this time, but eventually they both fell asleep, with slight smiles on their faces.

* * *

Lucien spent most of the morning holed up in his study calling various diplomats and ministry officials he knew until one of them promised to send a full list of the guards from the camp and the disposition of the case against each one. Lucien requested that it be telegraphed to the police station so they could begin tracking down any possible suspects immediately.

He went to the station himself and settled himself in the chair beside Matthew's desk, when he wasn't pacing or checking to be sure the officer on duty out front would have the telegram brought right over.

He was driving everyone crazy, and Matthew was just about ready to banish him when the telegram finally arrived. The Chief Superintendent unfolded it and laid it flat on his desk so Lucien could stand behind him and read it over his shoulder.

"Anything jump out at you?"

Lucien jabbed a finger at a name halfway down the list. "Him! Corporal Sadaharu Tanaka. He's the one we called the Sapper. He carried a sock filled with ball bearings and liked to use it on the heads of prisoners. Three men at least died from fractured skulls, and there were others who lived but…" He shook his head.

"How the hell was he not executed after the war?" Matthew said angrily.

"As I understand it, he agreed to testify against some of the officers, the higher-ups, that the prosecution was most anxious to convict." Lucien looked at the notes next to Tanaka's name. "He served fifteen years in prison, then was released. Which means…"

"Which means he was let out shortly before the murders in Sydney started. I think we have our man. Now, how to we find him. Any thoughts?"

"He would still be a foreign national," said Lucien. "He'd have to be registered with the immigration office."

"I'll get on that. Nice work, Lucien. We can take it from here."

"I think I've earned the right to be there when you catch him. I'm not going anywhere until then." And he plopped down in the same seat beside Matthew's desk, clearly ready to sit there for the duration.


	4. Chapter 4

**Part 4**

As ministry officials are wont to do, the one Matthew had briefed took his time getting back to them with the information.

"I could have driven to Adelaide and looked it up myself sooner," Matthew grumbled. He glared at Blake, who was pacing again. "Or sent you, get you out of my hair."

Lucien glared back, but resumed his pacing in silence.

Matthew was contemplating whether to let everyone on the daytime roster go home for the night, to try again in the morning, when finally his telephone rang. "Lawson," he barked. Listening for a moment, he began to write on his notepad. "When was that?" he asked, then listened again. "Yes, this is an urgent matter. If you can have someone here within the hour, we'll wait. Otherwise, I'm taking him in for questioning." Another pause. "Right. Thank you for the information. I'll keep you informed."

Lucien and the others now hovered over him. "Well?" asked Charlie.

Reading from his notes, Matthew told then, "At last report he had moved to a place about halfway between here and Ballan. That was ten days ago."

Lucien pounded a fist on the desk. "Just before Hammond was murdered."

"Let's move," said Matthew. "I'll have Inspector Freeman from Ballan meet us there. We'll do this right, gentlemen. No slip ups."

"Is the ministry sending someone?" asked Lucien.

"Can't get here until the morning. We won't be waiting for him."

* * *

Darkness was falling when they reached the secluded house on what had once been a farm but had long since surrendered to weeds and overgrowth. The house itself seemed to be in decent repair although badly in need of a coat of paint.

A dilapidated barn and shed provided some cover as the police officers surrounded the main house. Darkness or no, Mister Tanaka would not elude them again.

Lucien's heart pounded as he and Matthew waited for everyone to get into position. As badly as he wanted this case concluded and the murders to stop, he also dreaded facing Tanaka again. The scars on his back itched at the thought. He hoped he wouldn't embarrass himself.

"You all right?" Matthew asked quietly.

He could only nod and take a deep breath.

"Well, then."

They walked cautiously up to the house, having no idea what they might face inside. Lucien's nerves were strung tight in a way they hadn't been for many years.

Matthew knocked on the front but didn't wait for an answer before using a shoulder to fling it open. At the same time they could hear Charlie bursting in through the back door.

"Tanaka," Matthew called out, starting to move from room to room in search of their quarry. Lucien followed him, noting that the house was neat and tidy, nothing out of place except the clean teacups on the kitchen table.

"Here," said a voice from the back of the house, what must be a bedroom.

Wary that he might have a knife, Matthew grabbed a towel from the bathroom as they passed and wrapped it around his forearm, holding it before him protectively as he edged around the doorway. Lucien and Charlie were right behind him.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, lowering his arm.

Lucien took a deep breath and moved inside to see what had startled Matthew. His mouth gaped.

Tanaka sat in an upholstered armchair, his hands gripping the arms in dread. He was not a big man, and his dark hair was neatly combed. But what caught their attention was his legs. Or what was left of them. Both limbs had been amputated just above the knee.

"What do you want?" he demanded, in a heavily accented yet imperious voice that Lucien knew all too well." It still caused a chill to run up his spine.

Matthew looked at Lucien for confirmation that they had the right man, and one glance told him there was no mistake. But it was also clear that this man had not committed all those murders. Even using the wheelchair that stood in the corner of the room he could not have stabbed those men, not all of them.

"Now what?" asked Charlie.

"Now we take him in for questioning," said Matthew.

"But, boss, he couldn't…"

"Take him in," Matthew repeated sharply. He then grabbed Lucien's shoulder to guide him out of the room. "Thoughts?" he asked, when they were out of Tanaka's hearing.

Lucien shook his head. He was still off-balance after facing down one of the worst demons from his past. He smoothed down the hair at the back of his head. "I don't know how, but he's involved. He must be. The timing, if nothing else."

"Agreed," said Matthew. "Maybe he hired someone."

Bill Hobart came through the front door. "Boss, Simmons radioed. Someone tried to kill Nigel Harris just now."

"Is he all right?" Lucien demanded.

"Just a scratch, Simmons says. They're on the way to the station."

"I don't suppose they caught the assailant?" asked Matthew.

"Nope. And he had his face covered so no one got a good look at him. Just that he had dark hair. Short. Slight build."

"The one at the cemetery. All right, let's get Mister Tanaka to the station and find out what Mister Harris can tell us."

* * *

"He had a handkerchief covering most of his face," Harris told them. "Definitely Japanese though. The eyes, you know? They weren't covered."

"Did he say anything?" asked Matthew.

"Not really. Just a kind of yell. I was coming out of my barn and there he was with that knife. I put my left arm up to block it and hit him with my right." He flexed his fist. "That's when Constable Simmons showed up and the bugger took off. Dressed all in black so he just kind of disappeared, you know?"

Lucien gestured at the left arm, where a handkerchief had been wrapped around the forearm. "Let's have a look," he said, opening his medical bag. He quickly determined that no stitches would be necessary; a few butterfly bandages were sufficient to hold it closed. "There we are. If you have any problem with it, stop by my surgery."

"Thanks, Doctor. Again."

"How about a cuppa, Mister Harris?" Matthew suggested.

All at once Lucien was back in Tanaka's kitchen, staring at the table. "Two cups," he murmured. "There were two cups…"

"What?" Matthew demanded. He recognized the look on Lucien's face.

"There were two cups on the table. Tanaka was waiting for someone. Bloody hell, the killer is on his way back there."

He ran for the door, the others right behind him.

* * *

The light was still on in the bedroom, but the rest of the house was dark. Matthew and Lucien waited in concealment but with a view of the front door. Charlie and Bill covered the back one. Their cars were out of sight. Nothing to indicate outwardly that there was a welcoming party inside. Now they just had to hope that the killer had not already been there, seen that Tanaka was gone and fled himself.

Matthew was just beginning to assess other options when they heard it: the sound of an automobile pulling up outside. He motioned Lucien back, and ducked deeper into the shadows himself.

Something must have tipped him off. The man slipped silently through the front door, his dagger extended before him. Matthew cursed himself for not bringing his revolver, but stepped out into the open. "Police," he announced. "Drop the weapon and put yours hands in the air."

The man whirled toward the voice, his dagger moving slightly side to side as he approached.

Before he could get close enough to strike, Lucien was on him from behind, both hands clamped around the wrist of the arm holding the knife. The man was stronger than his slight build would suggest, but Lucien was strong himself, and the adrenaline charging through his body made him stronger still. He used his greater height as leverage to force the knife hand down, then banged it forcefully against his knee until the killer lost his grip and the weapon clattered to the floor.

Charlie and Bill had rushed in, and they quickly had the man pinned and handcuffed.

"Hey, Doc, you want to…? Bill nodded toward the man's exposed ribs.

Lucien turned away, almost physically sick. "No, thank you, Bill. It might be a good idea to have him in one piece."

"I have a feeling Sydney and the Gold Coast are going to want to talk to him as well," Matthew observed.

* * *

The man had no identification on him. He was completely silent on the trip back to the station.

None too gently, Charlie and Bill escorted him into the squad room, where Harris and Tanaka were still seated.

"That's him," Harris announced.

But the man was struggling against his escort in order to get a closer look at Tanaka. " _Otou-san_ " he murmured softly.

"Of course!" said Lucien, shaking his head. "I should have guessed."

"What did he say?" asked Matthew.

"He said 'father'. This is Tanaka's son."

The younger Tanaka's English was excellent. Now that he could no longer complete his father's mission, he saw no reason not to tell them everything. He and his mother had moved to Australia a few years after the war. The shame heaped on them by many in their Japanese hometown had forced them to flee the homeland.

They had settled near Adelaide and waited for Sadaharu to be released. The son, Shohei, had attended the University of Adelaide and eventually gotten an administrative position in the war office, using his access there to track some of the former prisoners from Changi.

"Why?" Matthew demanded. "I could understand them wanting revenge on your father, but what reason do you have to kill them?"

"They shamed my father," insisted Shohei.

"How did they do that?"

Lucien's voice was quiet. "We survived."

"So did he," Matthew pointed out.

"No! My father lost his honor. He can no longer return home. I had to avenge him. He can't do it himself now, and I'm his only son."

Charlie came forward and held out a sheet of paper. "We found this on Mister Tanaka. The older one. It's a list. Of victims. Doc, it looks like you were next."

* * *

Lucien and Charlie were both exhausted, but Jean insisted on warming up supper for them. She and Mattie watched them eat and peppered them with questions.

"So after what that man did to you and all the others, he somehow thought of himself as a victim?" Jean was indignant.

"It seems no one came out of that place unscathed," said Lucien. "Actually, there are studies that say the torturer is almost as damaged by it as those he tortures."

"They should have hanged him with the others." Jean would allow no sympathy for that despicable man.

"And what about the son then?" Mattie pointed out. "He's the one that actually killed all those poor people."

"They might hang _him_ now," Charlie said. "I imagine there'll be a lot of people calling for it."

"More victims of that bloody war," sighed Lucien. "When does it end?"

Jean handed him a glass of whiskey. "Well, this awful case has ended anyway. Do you think you can get some sleep tonight?"

"I'm going to try. Right now. Thank you for dinner, Jean. Good night, everyone." He took the glass with him as he trudged toward his bedroom.

"Good night, Lucien." Jean's eyes followed him until he was out of sight.

"You really think we'll get much sleep tonight?" Charlie asked quietly.

"More than he will, I'll bet," said Mattie.

Jean decided she would spend the night on the couch in the sitting room, just in case she was needed. Falling asleep in his arms really wasn't such a sacrifice, after all.


End file.
